Watching the Wheels Come Off (3 page)

S
nazell is back in the seafront shelter. His beady eyes flicker as the match ignites and meets his pipe. Swearing, he snuffs the flame as Mark dances down the steps of the Grand Atlantic and sets up a brisk pace along the esplanade.

Snazell follows, pipe smoke rising in rings as he puffs along in pursuit. His quarry, after turning several corners, reaches a Victorian school building. Evenings see it used for adult education. Light spills into the darkness from its high classroom windows.

Mark vanishes inside.

Snazell slides into a shop entrance to watch and wait. Behind him, on metal stands of varying heights, is a bizarre display of women’s hats: boater and bonnet, cloche and pillbox, veils and paper flowers: all in salmon pink. The reflection of his battered trilby, faded and stained, sits among them like a fly on a blancmange.

Mark runs up the stairs to the second floor and then
along a labyrinth of corridors. Sounds emanate from language lessons, media studies, classes on embroidery, philosophy, cookery, every conceivable form of human improvement.

He stops by a glass door, surreptitiously peering in. A cadaverous old wino poses naked on a plinth, hands resting on his hairy thighs, cock dangling unconcerned between them.

Six budding Rembrandts attend to their easels, one of them being Avril Springer. He catches her attention and moves on. Minutes later she excuses herself from the class.

Dark.

Deserted.

Mark unlocks the door to the school laboratory. Some light falls from the corridor outside, across the workbenches littered with test tubes and Bunsen burners. He waits inside.

Avril eventually enters.

It’s a well-oiled routine, Mark having duplicated the lab key some years before. They cross in silence to the storeroom. Its shelves are lined with biological specimens: locusts, frogs, snails, snakes, worms. Also jars of chemicals. Containers of acid.

A street lamp shines into the room, allowing them to examine the lust in each other’s eyes before their mouths clamp together in the moist fusion of a succubus.

Mark’s hands run from the contours of her arse, up her back, around her shoulders down to her breasts. Avril’s unzips his fly, fondles in his underpants until she finds his penis.

He groans.

She groans, too, as his hand lifts her dress, on its way past her suspenders to her knickers. A minimum of foreplay is needed for the successful, if brief, coupling; as is the case with most animals.

Avril bites his ear then whispers: ‘That’s my problem done.’ Taking his head in hands as strong as a vice, she locks her gaze on to his eyes: ‘Now what’s yours?’

‘I haven’t got a problem.’

‘Liar. There’s no such thing as a free fuck. Especially not with you.’

Mark raises his voice: ‘How can you say that?’

‘Easily. Is it money again?’

‘Money? That’s all you ever think about.’

‘If you want me to keep you as my toyboy, you’ll have to up your work load.’

She takes his balls in her hand: ‘Come on, Fido, stand up and beg.’

Mark groans again, but his cock refuses to respond.

‘Our relationship is dead.’

‘Not again.’

‘It’s based on lust, not love.’

She kisses him violently, plunging her tongue into his gasping mouth. Like some marine creature, it takes its time to explore every recess there. Unaware that his head
is rammed up against a grass snake embalmed in a jar, Mark manages to free his mouth in order to expand his theory on the male’s baser instincts.

‘Don’t you understand lust is transitory? When I
come
, I am, in reality, already
gone
. Now, that’s not fair on you. That’s exploiting you as a sex object. Avril, you must learn to understand men.’

And so the ante is raised.

Her painted nails flick his testicles, firing up his penis and quickly demolishing his theory of sexual exploitation; ironically by means of a substantial erection.

‘Oh, my God,’ he moans.

‘God’s got nothing to do with it.’

The jar with the preserved snake rattles seismically as he pulls her on to him. Hands locked on to her thighs, he thrusts back and forth with the precision of a piston engine. Then, a millisecond before the moment of sexual detonation, he murmurs in her ear.

‘Five thousand pounds, that’s my problem.’

Avril shudders with the force of an earthquake; spasms ripple across the landscape of her body. Her eyes shoot open with the ecstasy of someone lost eternally in the jungle of the senses, hopefully. Her mouth, however, remains rooted in the ugly compost of reality, screaming loud enough for all the adult education courses, including Life Drawing, to hear.

‘Five fucking thou!’

The battered alarm clock goes off, rattling against the wino’s callused feet. Time to capture his ‘life’ in charcoal, pencil or pastel is now on hold for ten minutes. The old man breaks his pose, flips his testicles to one side, crosses his legs and lights a fag.

It’s all very Bohemian.

Avril’s flushed face appears at the door. The surface of her dress, green silk now crinkled and stained, displays more originality and spontaneity than any of the artistic efforts sitting on the easels in that classroom.

She returns to her seat and studies her own effort. The fact that it bears no relation whatsoever to reality puzzles her. She can see the old man clearly, every wart and busted vein, but she can’t comprehend the skill needed to capture it on paper.

The model drops his fag end into a cup of cold tea and resets the alarm clock for another half hour. Moving his frail frame into a new position, he eventually settles with his bony arse directed right into their faces.

Undaunted, Avril confronts a fresh white sheet in her drawing pad and picks up a stick of charcoal. She stands, studies the stark boniness of the old man’s posterior, then applies her first bold but inaccurate line.

Sex for Avril had started standing up – up against an alley wall. She has liked it that way ever since. For her, unadulterated lust has such purity, no tentacles of attachment. It amuses her when men think they are using her, when all the time she is using them.

Mark’s periodic attempts to exchange his sperm for
money have given their couplings an added piquancy, but this evening it was of an unusually high intensity. He had pleaded with her, saying his life was at risk. She had looked into his furtive eyes, as weak and spent as his dick, and smiled.

She now studies the charcoal blackening the very fingers that so recently played with Mark’s sexual organ, then looks at the old model and sees clearly into the future. She finds it looks eternally sexy. She realises that she knows all there is to know about men – young, old and every age in between.

Snazell trails Mark back to Providence House, and then slips into the same shop entrance as if it was an old jacket. He lights his pipe while watching Mark’s office window on the third floor. His quarry soon appears, in silhouette, to drop the blind. It falls on to his head.

T
he answering machine unwinds its snake of words as Mark moves to a corner cupboard to unhook a dinner suit from behind the door.

A silky female voice insinuates itself: ‘Hi, Mark. Broadway Entertainment Agency here. We have a client who wants to challenge the
Guinness Book of Records
for the longest time lying on a bed of nails. The record stands at seventy days, five hours, forty-three minutes. Do you have a suitable location for such an event? Obviously it has to be available to us for longer than the current record.’

The voice becomes even more seductive when it moves on to the subject of money: ‘Mark, this could be a very nice earner. We had an extremely successful long-running event with a “Buried Alive” contestant on Brighton pier. In the first week, fifty thousand punters paid a fiver each to look at him in his glass coffin. And the outlay was minimal: sand from a local builder’s yard, with one plastic tube for an air hole. He was in there for nearly six months. Apparently he never once went to the toilet,’ she laughs, ‘unless he did it between our party tours, nod-nod,
wink-wink
.’
She laughs again. ‘Punters like to contemplate the little mysteries of life, don’t they? Think about it, Mark. “Bed of Nails” could be even bigger than “Buried Alive”. If you’re interested, give us a bell.’

Mark has already donned his dinner suit before the next message starts: ‘Mum here. Are you there?’

She waits, breathing asthmatically. ‘Sorry to hear about your escape-artist person escaping like that. Someone said they saw a man walk out the sea further down the coast. Covered in tattoos he was. It was on the local news. People will try anything to get on telly.’

More painful breathing, then: ‘Will you be over tomorrow? It’s toad-in-the-hole. Your shirts are done.’

She wheezes noisily again before hanging up. The machine clunks to a halt but is immediately activated by a
live
call. Mark clips on his bow tie as he listens to the voice booming from the speaker: ‘Out of millions of numbers, you have been selected in the lottery of a lifetime. You are the lucky winner of five thousand pounds. All you have to do is pick up the phone and answer one simple question.’

William Snazell chuckles into the machine: ‘I know you’re there, Mr Miles. I’m speaking on a mobile. If you look out the window, I’ll wave to you.’

And he does just that when Mark surreptitiously parts the newly restored blind. He then pulls from an inside pocket a wad of money which he also waves: ‘Pick up the phone, Mr Miles, and all this could be yours.’

Mark lets the blind flick back into place and steps away from the window. The answering machine purrs
harmlessly, but he circles it like it’s a cobra about to strike. Snazell appears to know exactly what’s happening in the office above him: ‘Pick it up. It won’t bite you. Remember your logo:
Make your Mark with Miles?
It’s up there, written in gold.’ He roars with laughter: ‘Go for
gold
, Mr Miles. Answer one simple question correctly and –’

Mark snatches the receiver from its cradle: ‘What’s the question?’

‘That’s more like it, Mr Miles. I like a good sport. In our security-conscious age we have, first of all, to ascertain that we are dealing with the right person. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘You are Mark Miles?’

‘I am.’

‘Well done.’

Mark waits. He can hear Snazell breathing.

‘Was that the question?’

‘Indeed it was. And you passed with flying colours. You want another one? What’s your mother’s maiden name?’

‘Maguffin.’

‘Correct. I now know you are the real McCoy and not the possessor of a stolen identity. So let’s get down to business. First let me in, Mr Miles.’

Again Snazell anticipates Mark’s reluctance: ‘Or we could talk down here in the street, but it looks as if it’s about to rain.’

Mark presses a buzzer: ‘Push the door.’

The dumpy silhouette appearing behind the
frosted-glass
door resembles Alfred Hitchcock, or so Mark thinks. When he opens it, Snazell is ready with a business card, while his beady eyes play over Mark’s face. It reads:
William Snazell. Private Investigator.

Mark, assuming the man’s come on behalf of a disgruntled creditor, curses himself for letting him in. Bluff is now called for, he decides, as he snatches the card impatiently: ‘Let’s make this fast. I have to be somewhere in five minutes.’

Snazell pushes past him into the room, scanning it quickly as he moves. He picks the baseball cap off the desk, examines it and tosses it disdainfully on to the anglepoise lamp. A headed notepad catches his eye. He picks it up and reads the heading:
From the desk of Mark Miles
. He chuckles: ‘I must say you seem to have picked up some very nasty transatlantic habits – including that ridiculous accent. Do you chew gum as well?’

‘What the fuck has…?’

As Mark’s words fizzle out, so the blood drains from his face. Snazell is holding a gun in one hand, while screwing a silencer into place with the other.

He smiles at Mark. ‘Talking of nasty transatlantic habits …’

Mark nearly chokes: ‘Is that for real?’

The detective takes a bead on the dartboard hanging above the sofa, and presses the trigger. He’s a surprisingly good shot: double top splinters before the board crashes to the floor.

‘Does that answer your question?’

The card in Mark’s hand is now shaking: ‘It says here you’re
licensed
. Is that to carry a gun?’

‘What gun?’

By the time Mark looks up again the gun’s back in the detective’s pocket. Snazell’s eyes are like ball-bearings.

‘A little joke, Mark. My way of letting off steam.’

There’s a neat hole in the wall where the bullet has lodged. Mark stares at it in bewilderment, then at the twisted dartboard. He attempts to speak, but only gurgles.

Snazell moves to a pegboard covered in adverts and newspaper cuttings. It constitutes a maze of pneumatic women, tired slogans and ludicrous claims to efficacy. Disgust clouds his face as he mutters to himself: ‘Lust… avarice… envy… all nurtured like monstrous babies breast-fed with lies and filth until they can crawl, walk and – worst of all –
breed
.’ His eyes finally settle on what he’s looking for: ‘What have we here?’

He unpins a flyer for Herman Temple’s course: ‘What do you actually know about these people?’

‘Not much.’

‘But you got them into the Grand Atlantic Hotel?’

‘I negotiated a package at off-season rates, that’s all.’

‘Why did they come to you?’

‘A friend had been on the course. They were looking for a hotel to relocate to, so he put us together, business-wise.’

‘What about Dr Herman P. Temple? Is he coming?’

‘’Course he is. Temple
is
the PII.’

‘You ever met him?’

‘No.’

‘You wouldn’t being lying, would you?’

‘Why should I lie?’

‘Because lying is your stock-in-trade. Also I was told you were the PII’s agent in the UK.’

‘Speaking of liars, who told you that?’

‘Never reveal a source, Mr Miles,’ he laughs. ‘Not even at gunpoint.’

He pegs the flyer back on the board, then turns and fixes Mark with his piggy eyes. The idea that eyes are the windows of the soul is bullshit and Snazell knows it. Even so, when Mark doesn’t bat either eyelid, the detective appears satisfied.

‘It seems I made a mistake, then. Sorry to have bothered you.’

With that he speeds for the door.

Mark explodes: ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You barge into my office, give a lethal demonstration of ballistic darts…’ He races after him into the corridor: ‘…insult me, dish up a sermon, and then just fuck off…’

Mark turns the colour of chalk when Snazell abruptly stops at the head of the stairs, then spins around with the gun back in his hand. He strokes his bulbous nose with its barrel.

‘Carbolic soap, Mr Miles, I recommend it for your mouth. Lest we ever meet again, I’ll have you remember that I’m a practising member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We Mormons don’t like profane language.’ Another awful smile settles on his
flaccid features as he adds, ‘Polygamy aside, a Mormon’s mind is as pure as spring water.’

He continues down the stairs.

‘Snazell,’ Mark yells after him. ‘I’m not fucking interested in your religion, place of birth, age or inside-leg measurement. What was that guff about a prize? Five thousand pounds, wasn’t it?’

The detective stops in his tracks, then retraces them.

‘I wondered when you’d get around to that. It was actually a reward for information. Information I now know you haven’t got.’

‘What information?’

Snazell smirks with the satisfaction of a fisherman about to land a big fish: ‘A client of mine, a rich and – how can I put it? –
mature
lady had her husband attend one of Temple’s courses last month. He, the husband, is somewhat younger than my client, and has proved not too successful at running her numerous business enterprises. Even so, I’m told he came top of the class there, and Temple awarded him a prize. An onyx and marble mantel clock with a battery-operated pendulum. Next morning, I’m told, he checked out of the hotel along with the all other students. Trouble is that neither he, nor the onyx and marble mantel clock, have been seen since. They never arrived back at Nirvana Nous, which is the name of my client’s home on the grassy outskirts of Guildford.’

He stops there as if that was the end of his tale.

‘So?’ Mark feels irritated.

‘So my client is now offering five thousand pounds for any information as to his whereabouts.’

The synapses in Mark’s brain are abruptly fired up. Fearful images of his fate at the hands of Reg Turpin’s giant brother-in-law bang about with the velocity of a squash ball, but suddenly a possible escape route opens up for him.

‘Five thousand pounds?’

‘You heard me right.’

Exactly the sum Mark needs. He chuckles with relief.

‘Five big ones? Is the husband worth it?’

‘He’s a Capricorn and very good in bed, so I’m told. It appears the two facts are unrelated, for which I’m deeply grateful, being a Pisces myself.’

Groundbait successfully dropped, Snazell pirouettes and starts down the stairs.

‘Walk in. Dance out,’ he quips finally. For such a podgy man he’s amazingly light on his feet.

Mark is on the phone.

‘Rodney, I got to see you – tonight! Can you come to the Starlight?’

His facial muscles twitch anxiously as Rodney drones on, till he interrupts him. ‘Rodney, I can’t explain on the phone. If I could, I would.’ Mark looks at the ceiling in frustration, as if seeking inspiration in the cobwebs. ‘I’ll tell you why, Rodney. Ever since I once ordered a Russian
Linguaphone kit, MI5 have kept a tap on my line.’ He then screams into the receiver, with conviction: ‘The Cold War’s over, arseholes! May your ears fill up with shit!’

His neck bulges with fury, causing the clip-on bow tie to pop off into a congealed cup of coffee.

‘Fuck!’

He fishes it out while listening to Rodney’s responses, before again interrupting: ‘Trust me, Rod, there’s a lot of dosh at stake here.’

The droning voice starts up again. Furious swivelling of the eyes heralds a final explosion from Mark, ‘Fucking dreary cow! You should never have married her. Tell her it’s Scottish dancing night, all knobbly knees and limp dicks. That should put her off.’

He rolls an ink blotter over the sodden bow tie, lowers his voice to a whisper and tries a new tack, ‘Rod, Rod, listen to me. Lots of beautiful bimbos go there on Saturday nights. I’ll fix you up, promise – get you laid on the Crazy Golf course. Nothing quite like fucking on top of Buckingham Palace.’ Clipping the bow tie into place, he waits for the bait to be swallowed.

‘Great. I’ll leave a pass for you at the stage door.’